BR 

las 



34^1 it 





1 




Class JMil£5_ 
Rook I \ 461 



Copyright IJ"_ 



COPVRIGHT DEPOSre 



^ 



Until the Evening 



By - i/ ^ 
Arthur C Benson 




New York 

Thomas Y. Crowell & Co. 

Publishers 



^ 






Copyright, 1907 
By E. P. Button & Co. 

Copyright, 1909 
By Thomas Y. Crowell & Co. 



Reprinted from " The Thread of Gold^^ by permission 
ofE. P. Dutton^ Co, 



CI.A 244794 
AUJ 13 1909 



CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Prayer 5 

The Mystery of Suffering . . . . . 15 

The Faith of Christ 20 

The Mystery of Evil 27 

Renewal 33 

After Death 39 

The Eternal Will 48 

Until the Evening 56 



UNTIL THE EVENING 



PRAYER 

I AM often baffled when I try to think what 
prayer is; if our thoughts do indeed lie 
open before the eyes of the Father, like a 
little clear globe of water which a man may hold 
in his hand — and I am sure they do — it cer- 
tainly seems hardly worth while to put those de- 
sires into words. Many good Christians seem to 
me to conceive of prayers partly as a kind of 
tribute they are bound to pay, and partly as re- 
quests that are almost certain to be refused. 
With such people religion, then, means the effort 
which they make to trust a Father who hears 
prayers, and very seldom answers them. But 
this does not seem to be a very reasonable 
attitude. 

I confess that liturgical prayer does not very 
much appeal to me. It does not seem to me to 
correspond to any particular need in my mind. 
It seems to me to sacrifice almost all the things 
that I mean by prayer — the sustained intention 

[5] 



Until the Evening 



of soul, the laying of one's own problems before 
the Father, the expression of one's hopes for 
others, the desire that the sorrows of the world 
should be lightened. Of course, a liturgy touches 
these thoughts at many points; but the exercise 
of one's own liberty of aspiration and wonder, the 
pursuing of a train of thought, the quiet dwelling 
upon mysteries, are all lost if one has to stumble 
and run in a prescribed track. To follow a ser- 
vice with uplifted attention requires more mental 
agility than I possess ; point after point is raised, 
and yet, if one pauses to meditate, to wonder, to 
aspire, one is lost, and misses the thread of the 
service. I suppose that there is or ought to be 
something in the united act of intercession. But 
I dislike all public meetings, and think them a 
waste of time. I should make an exception in 
favour of the Sacrament, but the rapid disappear- 
ance of the majority of a congregation before the 
solemn act seems to me to destroy the sense of 
unity with singular rapidity. As to the old theory 
that God requires of his followers that they should 
unite at intervals in presenting him with a certain 
amount of complimentary effusion, I cannot even 
approach the idea. The holiest, simplest, most 
benevolent being of whom I can conceive would 
be inexpressibly pained and distressed by such an 

[6] 



Until the Evening 



intention on the part of the objects of his care; 
and to conceive of God as greedy of recognition 
seems to me to be one of the conceptions which 
insult the dignity of the soul. 

I have heard lately one or two mediaeval stories 
which illustrate what I mean. There is a story of 
a pious monk, who, worn out by long vigils, fell 
asleep, as he was saying his prayers before a 
crucifix. He was awakened by a buffet on the 
head, and heard a stern voice saying, "Is this 
an oratory or a dormitory.^" I cannot conceive 
of any story more grotesquely human than the 
above, or more out of keeping with one's best 
thoughts about God. Again, there is a story 
which is told, I think, of one of the first monas- 
teries of the Benedictine order. One of the monks 
was a lay brother, who had many little menial 
tasks to fulfil ; he was a well-meaning man, but 
extremely forgetful, and he was often forced to 
retire from some service in which he was taking 
part, because he had forgotten to put the vege- 
tables on to boil, or omitted other duties which 
would lead to the discomfort of the brethren. 
Another monk, who was fond of more secular 
occupations, such as wood-carving and garden- 
work, and not at all attached to habits of prayer, 
seeing this, thought that he would do the same; 

[7] 



Until the Evening 



and he too used to slip away from a service, in 
order to return to the business that he loved 
better. The Prior of the monastery, an anxious, 
humble man, was at a loss how to act; so he 
called in a very holy hermit, who lived in a cell 
hard by, that he might have the benefit of his 
advice. The hermit came and attended an Office. 
Presently the lay brother rose from his knees and 
slipped out. The hermit looked up, followed him 
with his eyes, and appeared to be greatly moved. 
But he took no action, and only addressed him- 
self more assiduously to his prayers. Shortly 
after, the other brother rose and went out. The 
hermit looked up, and seeing him go, rose too, 
and followed him to the door, where he fetched 
him a great blow upon the head that nearly 
brought him to the ground. Thereupon the 
stricken man went humbly back to his place and 
addressed himself to his prayers ; and the hermit 
did the same. 

The Office was soon over, and the hermit 
went to the Prior's room to talk the matter 
over. The hermit said: 'T bore in my mind 
what you told me, dear Father, and when I saw 
one of the brethren rise from his prayers, I 
asked God to show me what I should do; but 
I saw a wonderful thing; there was a shining 

[8] 



Until the Evening 



figure with our brother, his hand upon the 
other's sleeve; and this fair comrade, I have 
no doubt, was an angel of God, that led the 
brother forth, that he might be about his Father's 
business. So I prayed the more earnestly. But 
when our other brother rose, I looked up ; and 
I saw that he had been plucked by the sleeve 
by a little naked, comely boy, very swarthy of 
hue, that I saw had no business among our 
holy prayers; he wore a mocking smile on his 
face, as though he prevailed in evil. So I rose 
and followed; and just as they came to the 
door, I aimed a shrewd blow, for it was told me 
what to do, at the boy, and struck him on the 
head, so that he fell to the ground, and presently 
went to his own place; and then our brother 
came back to his prayers." 

The Prior mused a little over this wonder, 
and then he said, smiling: "It seemed to me 
that it was our brother that was smitten." ''Very 
like," said the hermit, "for the two were close 
together, and I think the boy was whispering 
in the brother's ear; but give God the glory; 
for the dear brother will not offend again." 

There is an abundance of truth in this whole- 
some ancient tale ; but I will not draw the morals 
out here. All I will say is that the old theory 

[9] 



Until the Evening 



of prayer, simple and childlike as it is, seems 
to have a curious vitality even nowadays. It 
presupposes that the act of prayer is in itself 
pleasing to God; and that is what I am not 
satisfied of. 

That theory seems to prevail even more 
strongly in the Roman Church of to-day than 
in our own. The Roman priest is not a man 
occupied primarily with pastoral duties; his 
business is the business of prayer. To neglect 
his daily offices is a mortal sin, and when he has 
said them, his priestly duty is at an end. This 
does not seem to me to bear any relation to 
the theory of prayer as enunciated in the Gospel. 
There the practice of constant and secret prayer, 
of a direct and informal kind, is enjoined upon all 
followers of Christ; but Our Lord seems to be 
very hard upon the lengthy and public prayers of 
the Pharisees, and indeed against all formality in 
the matter at all. The only united service that he 
enjoined upon his followers was the Sacrament of 
the common meal ; and I confess that the saying 
of formal liturgies in an ornate buUding seems to 
me to be a practice which has drifted very far 
away from the simplicity of individual religion 
which Christ appears to have aimed at. 

My own feeling about prayer is that it should 
[10] 



Until the E vening 



not be relegated to certain seasons, or attended 
by certain postures, or even couched in definite 
language; it should rather be a constant uplift- 
ing of the heart, a stretching out of the hands to 
God. I do not think we should ask for definite 
things that we desire; I am sure that our defi- 
nite desires, our fears, our plans, our schemes, 
the hope that visits one a hundred times a day, 
our cravings for wealth or success or influence, 
are as easily read by God, as a man can discern 
the tiny atoms and filaments that swim in his 
crystal globe. But I think we may ask to be 
led, to be guided, to be helped; we may put 
our anxious little decisions before God ; we may 
ask for strength to fulfil hard duties; we may 
put our desires for others' happiness, our hopes 
for our country, our compassion for sorrowing 
or afflicted persons, our horror of cruelty and 
tyranny before him; and here I believe lies the 
force of prayer; that by practising this sense of 
aspiration in his presence, we gain a strength to 
do our own part. If we abstain from prayer, if 
we limit our prayers to our own small desires, 
we grow, I know, petty and self-absorbed and 
feeble. We can leave the fulfilment of our con- 
crete aims to God; but we ought to be always 
stretching out our hands and opening our hearts 
[11] 



Until the Evening 



to the high and gracious mysteries that lie all 
about us. 

A friend of mine told me that a little Russian 
peasant, whom he had visited often in a military- 
hospital, told him, at their last interview, that he 
would tell him a prayer that was always effective, 
and had never failed of being answered. ''But 
you must not use it," he said, "unless you are in 
a great difficulty, and there seems no way out.'* 
The prayer which he then repeated was this: 
*'Lord, remember King David, and all his 
grace." 

I have never tested the efficacy of this prayer, 
but I have a thousand times tested the efficacy 
of sudden prayer in moments of difficulty, when 
confronted with a little temptation, when over- 
whelmed with irritation, before an anxious inter- 
view, before writing a difficult passage. How 
often has the temptation floated away, the irri- 
tation mastered itself, the right word been said, 
the right sentence written ! To do all we are 
capable of, and then to commit the matter to 
the hand of the Father, that is the best that we 
can do. 

Of course, I am well aware that there are many 
who find this kind of help in liturgical prayer; 
and I am thankful that it is so. But for myself, 
[12] 



Until the Evening 



I can only say that as long as I pursued the 
customary path, and confined myself to fixed 
moments of prayer, I gained very little benefit. I 
do not forego the practice of liturgical attendance 
even now; for a solemn service, with all the 
majesty of an old and beautiful building full of 
countless associations, with all the resources of 
musical sound and ceremonial movement, does 
uplift and rejoice the soul. And even with 
simpler services, there is often something vaguely 
sustaining and tranquillising in the act. But the 
deeper secret lies in the fact that prayer is an 
attitude of soul and not a ceremony ; that it is an 
individual mystery, and not a piece of venerable 
pomp. I would have every one adopt his own 
method in the matter. I would not for an instant 
discourage those who find that liturgical usage 
uplifts them ; but neither would I have those to 
be discouraged who find that it has no meaning 
for them. The secret lies in the fact that our 
aim should be a relation with the Father, a frank 
and reverent confidence, a humble waiting upon 
God. That the Father loves all his children 
with an equal love I doubt not. But he is nearest 
to those who turn to him at every moment, and 
speak to him with a quiet trustfulness. He alone 
knows why he has set us in the middle of such a 
[13] 



Until the Evening 



bewildering world, where joy and sorrow, dark- 
ness and light, are so strangely intermingled; 
and all that we can do is to follow wisely and 
patiently such clues as he gives us, into the 
cloudy darkness in which he seems to dwell. 



[14] 



Until the Evening 



THE MYSTERY OF SUFFERING 

HERE is a story which has much occupied my 
thoughts lately. A man in middle life, with 
a widowed sister and her children depending on 
him, living by professional exertions, is suddenly 
attacked by a painful, horrible, and fatal com- 
plaint. He goes through a terrible operation, and 
then struggles back to his work again, with the 
utmost courage and gallantry. Again the com- 
plaint returns, and the operation is repeated. 
After this he returns again to his work, but at 
last, after enduring untold agonies, he is forced to 
retire into an invalid life, after a few months of 
which he dies in terrible suffering, and leaves his 
sister and the children nearly penniless. 

The man was a quiet, simple-minded person, 
fond of his work, fond of his home, conven- 
tional and not remarkable except for the simply 
heroic quality he displayed, smiling and joking 
up to the moment of the administering of anaes- 
thetics for his operations, and bearing his suffer- 
ings with perfect patience and fortitude, never 
saying an impatient word, grateful for the small- 
est services. 

[15] 



Until the Evening 



His sister, a simple, active woman, with much 
tender affection and considerable shrewdness, 
finding that the fear of incurring needless ex- 
pense distressed her brother, devoted herself 
to the ghastly and terrible task of nursing him 
through his illnesses. The children behaved with 
the same straightforward affection and goodness. 
None of the circle ever complained, ever said 
a word which would lead one to suppose that 
they had any feeling of resentment or cowardice. 
They simply received the blows of fate humbly, 
resignedly, and cheerfully, and made the best of 
the situation. 

Now, let us look this sad story in the face, 
and see if we can derive any hope or comfort 
from it. In the first place, there was nothing in 
the man's life which would lead one to suppose 
that he deserved or needed this special chasten- 
ing, this crucifixion of the body. He was by in- 
stinct humble, laborious, unselfish, and good, all 
of which qualities came out in his illness. Neither 
was there anything in the life or character of the 
sister which seemed to need this stern and severe 
trial. The household had lived a very quiet, 
active, useful life, models of good citizens — 
religious, contented, drawing great happiness 
from very simple resources. 
[16] 



Until the Evening 



One's belief in the goodness, the justice, the 
patience of the Father and Maker of men forbids 
one to believe that he can ever be wantonly 
cruel, unjust, or unloving. Yet it is impossible 
to see the mercy or justice of his actions in this 
case. And the misery is that, if it could be 
proved that in one single case, however small, 
God's goodness had, so to speak, broken down; 
if there were evidence of neglect or carelessness 
or indifference, in the case of one single child 
of his, one singLe sentient thing that he has 
created, it would be impossible to believe in his 
omnipotence any more. Either one would feel 
that he was unjust and cruel, or that there was 
some evil power at work in the world which 
he could not overcome. 

For there is nothing remedial in this suffering. 
The man's useful, gentle life is over, the sister is 
broken down, unhappy, a second time made des- 
olate; the children's education has suffered, their 
home is made miserable. The only thing that one 
can see, that is in any degree a compensation, is 
the extraordinary kindness displayed by friends, 
relations, and employers in making things easy 
for the afflicted household. And then, too, 
there is the heroic quality of soul displayed by 
the sufferer himself and his sister — a heroism 
2 [17] 



Until the Evening 



which is ennobling to think of, and yet humiliat- 
ing too, because it seems to be so far out of one's 
own reach. 

This is a very dark abyss of the world into 
which we are looking. The case is an extreme 
one perhaps, but similar things happen every day, 
in this sad and wonderful and bewildering world. 
Of course, one may take refuge in a gloomy 
acquiescence, saying that such things seem to be 
part of the world as it is made, and we cannot 
explain them, while we dumbly hope that we may 
be spared such woes. But that is a dark and de- 
spairing attitude, and, for one, I cannot live at 
all, unless I feel that God is indeed more upon 
our side than that. I cannot live at all, I say. 
And yet I must live ; I must endure the Will of 
God in whatever form it is laid upon me — in 
joy or in pain, in contentment or sick despair. 
Why am I at one with the Will of God when it 
gives me strength, and hope, and delight ? Why 
am I so averse to it when it brings me languor, 
and sorrow, and despair.^ That I cannot tell; 
and that is the enigma which has confronted men 
from generation to generation. 

But I still believe that there is a Will of God ; 
and, more than that, I can still believe that a 
day comes for ail of us, however far off it may 

[18] 



Until the Evening 



be, when we shall understand ; when these trage- 
dies, that now blacken and darken the very air 
of Heaven for us, will sink into their places in a 
scheme so august, so magnificent, so joyful, that 
we shall laugh for wonder and delight ; when we 
shall think not more sorrowfully over these suf- 
ferings, these agonies, than we think now of the 
sad days in our childhood when we sat with a 
passion of tears over a broken toy or a dead bird, 
feeling that we could not be comforted. We 
smile as we remember such things — we smile at 
our blindness, our limitations. We smile to reflect 
at the great range and panorama of the world 
that has opened upon us since, and of which, in 
our childish grief, we were so ignorant. Under 
what conditions the glory will be revealed to us 
I cannot guess. But I do not doubt that it will 
be revealed ; for we forget sorrow, but we do not 
forget joy. 



[19] 



Until the Evening 



THE FAITH OF CHRIST 

1READ a terrible letter in a newspaper this 
morning, a letter from a clergyman of high 
position, finding fault with a manifesto put out 
by certain other clergymen; the letter had a 
certain volubility about it, and the writer seemed 
to me to pull out rather adroitly one or two 
loose sticks in his opponents' bundle, and to lay 
them vehemently about their backs. But, alas ! 
the acrimony, the positiveness, the arrogance 
of it! 

I do not know that I admired the manifesto 
very much myself; it was a timid and half- 
hearted document, but it was at least sympa- 
thetic and tender. The purport of it was to say 
that, just as historical criticism has shown that 
some of the Old Testament must be regarded as 
fabulous, so we must be prepared for a possible 
loss of certitude in some of the details of the New 
Testament. It is conceivable, for instance, that 
without sacrificing the least portion of the essen- 
tial teaching of Christ, men may come to feel jus- 
tified in a certain suspension of judgment with 
regard to some of the miraculous occurrences 
[20] 



Until the Evening 



there related ; may even grow to believe that an 
element of exaggeration is there, that element of 
exaggeration which is never absent from the writ- 
ings of any age in which scientific historical meth- 
ods had no existence. A suspension of judgment, 
say: because in the absence of any converging 
historical testimony to the events of the New 
Testament, it will never be possible either to 
affirm or to deny historically that the facts took 
place exactly as related; though, indeed, the 
probability of their having so occurred may seem 
to be diminished. 

The controversialist, whose letter I read with 
bewilderment and pain, involved his real belief 
in ingenious sentences, so that one would think 
that he accepted the statements of the Old Tes- 
tament, such as the account of the Creation 
and the Fall, the speaking of Balaam's ass, the 
swallowing of Jonah by the whale, as historical 
facts. He went on to say that the miraculous 
element of the New Testament is accredited by 
the Revelation of God, as though some definite 
revelation of truth had taken place at some 
time or other, which all rational men recognized. 
But the only objective process which has ever 
taken place is, that at certain Councils of the 
Church, certain books of Scripture were selected 
[21] 



Until the Evening 



as essential documents, and the previous selection 
of the Old Testament books was confirmed. But 
would the controversialist say that these Councils 
were infallible? It must surely be clear to all 
rational people that the members of these Coun- 
cils were merely doing their best, under the con- 
ditions that then prevailed, to select the books 
that seemed to them to contam the truth. It is 
impossible to believe that if the majority at these 
Councils had supposed that such an account as 
the account in Genesis of the Creation was 
mythological, they would thus have attested its 
literal truth. It never occurred to them to doubt 
it, because they did not understand the principle 
that, while a normal event can be accepted, if it 
is fairly well confirmed, an abnormal event re- 
quires a far greater amount of converging testi- 
mony to confirm it. 

If only the clergy could realise that what 
ordinary laymen like myself want is a greater 
elasticity instead of an irrational certainty ! If 
only instead of feebly trying to save the out- 
works, which are already in the hands of the 
enemy, they would man the walls of the central 
fortress ! If only they would say plainly that a 
man could remain a convinced Christian, and yet 
not be bound to hold to the literal accuracy of 
[22] 



Until the Evening 



the account of miraculous incidents recorded in 
the Bible, it would be a great relief. 

I am myself in the position of thousands of 
other laymen. I am a sincere Christian; and 
yet I regard the Old Testament and the New 
Testament alike as the work of fallible men and 
of poetical minds. I regard the Old Testament 
as a noble collection of ancient writings, contain- 
ing myths, chronicles, fables, poems, and dramas, 
the value of which consists in the intense faith 
in a personal God and Father with which it is 
penetrated. 

When I come to the New Testament, I feel 
myself, in the Gospels, confronted by the most 
wonderful personality which has ever drawn 
breath upon the earth. I am not in a position to 
affirm or to deny the exact truth of the miraculous 
occurrences there related; but the more con- 
scious I am of the fallibility, the lack of subtlety, 
the absence of trained historical method that the 
writers display, the more convinced I am of the 
essential truth of the Person and teaching of 
Christ, because he seems to me a figure so 
infinitely beyond the intellectual power of 
those who described him to have invented or 
created. 

If the authors of the Gospels had been men 
[23] 



Until the Even i n g 



of delicate literary skill, of acute philosophical 
or poetical insight, like Plato or Shakespeare, 
then I should be far less convinced of the integral 
truth of the record. But the words and sayings 
of Christ, the ideas which he disseminated, seem 
to me so infinitely above the highest achieve- 
ments of the human spii'it, that I have no diffi- 
culty in confessing, humbly and reverently, that 
I am in the presence of one who seems to me to 
be above humanity, and not only of it. If all the 
miraculous events of the Gospels could be proved 
never to have occurred, it would not disturb my 
faith in Christ for an instant. But I am content, 
as it is, to believe in the possibility of so abnormal 
a personality being surrounded by abnormal 
events, though I am not in a position to disen- 
tangle the actual truth from the possibilities of 
misrepresentation and exaggeration. 

Dealing with the rest of the New Testament, 
I see in the Acts of the Apostles a deeply inter- 
esting record of the first ripples of the faith in 
the world. In the Pauline and other epistles I 
see the words of fervent primitive Christians, 
men of real and untutored genius, in which one 
has amazing instances of the effect produced, on 
contemporary or nearly contemporary persons, of 
the same overwhelming personality, the person- 



Until the Evening 



ality of Christ. In the Apocalypse I see a vision 
of deep poetical force and insight. 

But in none of these compositions, though they 
reveal a glow and fervour of conviction that 
places them high among the memorials of the 
human spirit, do I recognise anything which is 
beyond human possibilities. I observe, indeed, 
that St. Paul's method of argument is not always 
perfectly consistent, nor his conclusions absolutely 
cogent. Such inspiration as they contain they 
draw from their nearness to and their close ap- 
prehension of the dim and awe-inspiring pres- 
ence of Christ Himself. 

If, as I say, the Church would concentrate her 
forces in this inner fortress, the personality of 
Christ, and quit the debatable ground of histori- 
cal enquiry, it would be to me and to many an 
unfeigned relief; but meanwhile, neither scien- 
tific critics nor irrational pedants shall invali- 
date my claim to be of the number of believing 
Christians. I claim a Christian liberty of thought, 
while I acknowledge, with bowed head, my belief 
in God the Father of Men, in a Divine Christ, the 
Redeemer and Saviour, and in the presence in 
the hearts of men of a Divine spirit, leading 
humanity tenderly forward. I can neither affirm 
nor deny the literal accuracy of Scripture records ; 
[25] 



Until the Evening 



I am not in a position to deny the superstructure 
of definite dogma raised by the tradition of the 
Church about the central truths of its teaching, 
but neither can I deny the possibility of an ad- 
mixture of human error in the fabric. I claim 
my right to receive the Sacraments of my Church, 
believing as I do that they invigorate the soul, 
bring the presence of its Redeemer near, and 
constitute a bond of Christian unity. But I 
have no reason to believe that any human pro- 
nouncement whatever, the pronouncements of 
men of science as well as the pronouncements 
of theologians, are not liable to error. There is 
indeed no fact in the world except the fact of 
my own existence of which I am absolutely 
certain. And thus I can accept no system of 
religion which is based upon deductions, however 
subtle, from isolated texts, because I cannot be 
sure of the infallibility of any form of human 
expression. Yet, on the other hand, I seem to 
discern with as much certainty as I can discern 
anything in this world, where all is so dark, 
the presence upon earth at a certain date of a 
personality which commands my homage and 
allegiance. And upon this I build my trust. 



[26] 



Until the Evening 



THE MYSTERY OF EVIL 

1WAS staying the other day in a large old 
country-house. One morning, my host came 
to me and said: "I should like to show you a 
curious thing. We have just discovered a cellar 
here that seems never to have been visited or 
used since the house vv^as built, and there is the 
strangest fungoid grov^th in it I have ever seen." 
He took a big bunch of keys, rang the bell, gave 
an order for lights to be brought, and we went 
together to the place. There were ranges of 
brick-built, vaulted chambers, through which we 
passed, pleasant, cool places, with no plaster to 
conceal the native brick, with great wine-bins on 
either hand. It all gave one an inkling of the 
change in material conditions which must have 
taken place since they were built ; the quantity of 
wine consumed in eighteenth-century days must 
have been so enormous, and the difficulty of con- 
veyance so great, that every great householder 
must have felt like the Rich Fool of the parable, 
with much goods laid up for many years. In the 
corner of one of the great vaults was a low-arched 
door, and my friend explained that some panel- 
ling which had been taken out of an older house, 
[27] 



Until the Evening 



demolished to make room for the present man- 
sion, had been piled up here, and thus the en- 
trance had been hidden. He unlocked the door, 
and a strange scent came out. An abundance of 
lights were lit, and we went into the vault. It 
was the strangest scene I have ever beheld; the 
end of the vault seemed like a great bed, hung 
with brown velvet curtains, through the gaps of 
which were visible what seemed like white velvet 
pillows, strange humped conglomerations. My 
friend explained to me that there had been a bin 
at the end of the vault, out of the wood of which 
these singular fungi had sprouted. The whole 
place was uncanny and horrible. The great vel- 
vet curtains swayed in the current of air, and it 
seemed as though at any moment some myste- 
rious sleeper might be awakened, might peer forth 
from his dark curtains, with a fretful enquiry as 
to why he was disturbed. 

The scene dwelt in my mind for many days, 
and aroused in me a strange train of thought; 
these dim vegetable forms, with their rich luxu- 
riance, their sinister beauty, awoke a curious re- 
pugnance in the mind. They seemed unholy and 
evil. And yet it is all part of the life of nature; 
it is just as natural, just as beautiful to find life 
at work in this gloomy and unvisited place, 
[28] 



Until the Evening 



wreathing the bare walls with these dark, soft 
fabrics. It was impossible not to feel that there 
was a certain joy of life in these growths, sprout- 
ing with such security and luxuriance in a place 
so precisely adapted to their well-being ; and yet 
there was the shadow of death and darkness 
about them, to us whose home is the free air and 
the sun. It seemed to me to make a curious para- 
ble of the baffling mystery of evil, the luxuriant 
growth of sin in the dark soul. I have always 
felt that the reason why the mystery of evil is so 
baffling is because we so resolutely think of evil as 
of something inimical to the nature of God ; and 
yet evil must derive its vitality from him. The 
one thing that it is impossible to believe is that, 
in a world ruled by an all-powerful God, anything 
should come into existence which is in opposition 
to his Will. It is impossible to arrive at any solu- 
tion of the difflculty, unless we either adopt the 
belief that God is not all-powerful, and that there 
is a real dualism in nature, two powers in eternal 
opposition ; or else realise that evil is in some way 
a manifestation of God. If we adopt the first 
theory, we may conceive of the stationary ten- 
dency in nature, its inertness, the force that tends 
to bring motion to a standstill, as one power, the 
power of Death; and we may conceive of all 
[29] 



Until the Evening 



motion and force as the other power, the quicken- 
ing spirit, the power of life. But even here we 
are met with a difficulty, for when we try to trans- 
fer this dualism to the region of humanity, we 
see that in the phenomena of disease we are con- 
fronted, not with inertness fighting against mo- 
tion, but with one kind of life, which is inimical 
to human life, fighting with another kind of life 
which is favourable to health. I mean that when 
a fever or a cancer lays hold of a human frame, it 
is nothing but the lodging inside the body of a 
bacterial and an infusorial life which fights against 
the healthy native life of the human organism. 
There must be, I will not say a consciousness, but 
a sense of triumphant life, in the cancer which 
feeds upon the limb, in spite of all efforts to dis- 
lodge it : and it is impossible to me to believe that 
the vitality of those parasitical organisms, which 
prey upon the human frame, is not derived from 
the vital impulse of God. We, who live in the 
free air and the sun, have a way of thmking and 
speaking as if the plants and animals which 
develop under the same conditions were of a 
healthy type, while the organisms which flourish 
in decay and darkness, such as the fungi of which 
I saw so strange an example, the larvae which 
prey on decaving matter, the soft and pallid 
[30] 



Until the Evening 



worm-like forms that tunnel in vegetable ooze, 
were of an unhealthy type. But yet these crea- 
tures are as much the work of God as the flowers 
and trees, the brisk animals which we love to see 
about us. We are obliged in self-defence to do 
battle with the creatures v/hich menace our health ; 
we do not question our right to deprive them of 
life for our own comfort; but surely with this 
analogy before us, we are equally compelled to 
think of the forms of moral evil, with all their 
dark vitality, as the work of God's hand. It is a 
sad conclusion to be obliged to draw, but I can 
have no doubt that no comprehensive system of 
philosophy can ever be framed, which does not 
trace the vitality of what we call evil to the same 
hand as the vitality of what we call good. I have 
no doubt myself of the supremacy of a single 
power; but the explanation that evil came into 
the world by the institution of free-will, and that 
suffering is the result of sin, seems to me to be 
wholly inadequate, because the mystery of strife 
and pain and death is "far older than any history 
which is written in any book." The mistake that 
we make is to count up all the qualities which 
seem to promote our health and happiness, and 
to invent an anthropomorphic figure of God, 
whom we array upon the side which we wish to 
[31] 



Until the Evening 



prevail. The truth is far darker, far sterner, far 
more mysterious. The darkness is his not less 
than the light; selfishness and sin are the work 
of his hand, as much as unselfishness and holi- 
ness. To call this attitude of mind pessimism, 
and to say that it can only end in acquiescence or 
despair, is a sin against truth. A creed that does 
not take this thought into account is nothing but 
a delusion, with which we try to beguile the seri- 
ousness of the truth which we dread ; but such a 
stern belief does not forbid us to struggle and to 
strive ; it rather bids us believe that effort is a law 
of our natures, that we are bound to be enlisted 
for the fight, and that the only natures that fail 
are those that refuse to take a side at all. 

There is no indecision in nature, though there 
is some illusion. The very star that rises, pale 
and serene, above the darkening thicket, is in 
reality a globe wreathed in fiery vapour, the 
centre of a throng of whirling planets. What 
we have to do is to see as deep as we can into 
the truth of things, not to invent paradises of 
thought, sheltered gardens, from w^hich grief and 
suffering shall tear us, naked and protesting; 
to gaze into the heart of God, and then to 
follov/ as faithfully as Vv^e can the imperative 
voice that speaks within the soul. 
[32] 



U ntil the E veiling 



RENEWAL 

THERE sometimes falls upon me a great hun- 
ger of heart, a sad desire to build up and re- 
new something — a broken building it may be, a 
fading flower, a failing institution, a ruinous char- 
acter. I feel a great and vivid pity for a thing 
which sets out to be so bright and beautiful, and 
lapses into shapeless and uncomely neglect. 
Sometimes, indeed, it must be a desolate grief, a 
fruitless sorrow : as when a flower that has stood 
on one's table, and cheered the air with its fresh- 
ness, and fragrance, begins to droop, and to grow 
stained and sordid. Or I see some dying crea- 
ture, a wounded animal ; or even some well-loved 
friend under the shadow of death, with the hue of 
health fading, the dear features sharpening for the 
last change; and then one can only bow, with 
such resignation as one can muster, before the 
dreadful law of death, pray that the passage may 
not be long or dark, and try to dream of the 
bright secrets that may be waiting on the other 
side. 

But sometimes it is a more fruitful sadness, 
when one feels that decay can be arrested, that 
3 [33] 



Until the Evening 



new life can be infused ; that a fresh start may 
be taken, and a life may be beautifully renewed, 
and be even the brighter, one dares to hope, for a 
lapse into the dreary ways of bitterness. 

This sadness is most apt to beset those who 
have anything to do with the work of education. 
One feels sometimes, with a sudden shiver, as 
when the shadow of a cloud passes over a sunlit 
garden, that many elements are at work in a small 
society ; that an evil secret is spreading over lives 
that were peaceful and contented, that suspicion 
and disunion and misunderstanding are springing 
up, like poisonous weeds, in the quiet corner that 
God has given one to dress and keep. Then 
perhaps one tries to put one's hand on what is 
amiss ; sometimes one does too much, and in the 
wrong w^ay ; one has not enough faith, one dares 
not leave enough to God. Or from timidity or 
diffidence, or from the base desire not to be 
troubled, from the poor hope that perhaps things 
will straighten themselves out, one does too little; 
and that is the worst shadow of all, the shadow of 
cow^ardice or sloth. 

Sometimes, too, one has the grief of seeing a 

slow and subtle change passing over the manner 

and face of one for whom one cares — not the 

change of languor or physical weakness ; that can 

[34] 



Until the Evening 



be pityingly borne ; but one sees innocence with- 
ering, indifference to things wholesome and fair 
creeping on, even sometimes a ripe and evil sort 
of beauty maturing, such as comes of looking at 
evil unashamed, and seeing its strong seductive- 
ness. One feels instinctively that the door which 
had been open before between such a soul and 
one's own spirit is being slowly and firmly 
closed, or even, if one attempts to open it, pulled 
to with a swift motion; and then one may hear 
sounds within, and even see, in that moment, a 
rush of gliding forms, that makes one sure that 
a visitant is there, who has brought with him a 
wicked company; and then one has to wait in 
sadness, with now and then a timid knocking, 
even happy, it may be, if the soul sometimes calls 
fretfully within, to say that it is occupied and can- 
not come forth. 

But sometimes, God be praised, it is the other 
way. A year ago a man came at his own request 
to see me. I hardly knew him ; but I could see 
at once that he was in the grip of some hard 
conflict, which withered his natural bloom. I do 
not know how all came to be revealed ; but in a 
little while he was speaking with simple frankness 
and naturalness of all his troubles, and they were 
many. What was the most touching thing of all 
[35] 



Until the Evening 



was that he spoke as if he were quite alone in his . 
experience, isolated and shut off from his kind, in 
a peculiar horror of darkness and doubt ; as if the 
thoughts and difficulties at which he stumbled had 
never strewn a human path before. I said but 
little to him; and, indeed, there was but little to 
say. It was enough that he should "cleanse the 
stuff'd bosom of the perilous stuff that weighs 
upon the heart." I tried to make him feel that he 
was not alone in the matter and that other feet 
had trodden the dark path before him. No ad- 
vice is possible in such cases; ''therein the pa- 
tient must minister to himself"; the solution lies 
in the mind of the sufferer. He knows what he 
ought to do ; the difficulty is for him sufficiently 
to desire to do it; yet even to speak frankly of 
cares and troubles is very often to melt and dis- 
perse the morbid mist that gathers round them, 
which grows in solitude. To state them makes 
them plain and simple; and, indeed, it is more 
than that ; for I have often noticed that the mere 
act of formulating, one's difficulties in the hearing 
of one who sympathises and feels often brings 
the solution with it. One finds, like Christian in 
Doubting Castle, the key which has lain in one's 
bosom all the time — the key of Promise ; and 
when one has finished the recital, one is lost in 
[36] 



Until the Evening 



bewilderment that one ever was in any doubt 
at all. 

A year has passed since that date, and I have 
had the happiness of seeing health and content- 
ment stream back into the man's face. He has 
not overcome, he has not won an easy triumph ; 
but he is in the way now, not wandering on 
trackless hills. 

So, in the mood of which I spoke at first — the 
mood in which one desires to build up and renew 
— one must not yield oneself to luxurious and 
pathetic reveries, or allow oneself to muse and 
wonder in the half-lit region in which one may 
beat one's wings in vain — the region, I mean, of 
sad stupefaction as to why the world is so full 
of broken dreams, shattered hopes, and unful- 
filled possibilities. One must rather look round 
for some little definite failure that is within the 
circle of one's vision. And even so, there some- 
times comes what is the most evil and subtle temp- 
tation of all, which creeps upon the mind in lowly 
guise, and preaches inaction. What concern 
have you, says the tempting voice, to meddle 
with the lives and characters of others — to guide, 
to direct, to help — when there is so much that 
is bitterly amiss with your own heart and life? 
How will you dare to preach what you do not 
[37] 



Until the Evening 



practise ? The answer of the brave heart is 
that, if one is aware of failure, if one has suffered^ 
if one has gathered experience, one must be 
ready to share it. If I falter and stumble under 
my own heavy load, which I have borne so queru- 
lously, so clumsily, shall I not say a word which 
can help a fellow-sufferer to bear his load more 
easily, help him to avoid the mistakes, the falls 
into which my own perversity has betrayed me? 
To make another's burden lighter is to lighten 
one's own burden; and, sinful as it may be to 
err, it is still more sinful to see another err, and 
be silent, to withhold the word that might save 
him. Perhaps no one can help so much as one 
that has suffered himself, who knows the turns 
of the sad road, and the trenches which beset 
the way. 

For this comes most truly the joy of repentance ; 
it is joy to feel that one's own lesson is learnt, 
and that the feeble feet are a little stronger; but 
if one may also feel that another has taken heed, 
has been saved the fall that must have come if 
he had not been warned, one does not grudge 
one's own pain, that has brought a blessing with 
it, that is outside of one's own blessing; one 
hardly even grudges the sin. 



[38] 



Until the Evening 



AFTER DEATH 

1HAD SO strange a dream or vision the other 
night, that I cannot refrain from setting it 
down; because the strangeness and the wonder 
of it seem to make it impossible for me to have 
conceived of it myself ; it was suggested by noth- 
ing, originated by nothing that I can trace; it 
merely came to me out of the void. 

After confused and troubled dreams of terror 
and bewilderment, enacted in blind passages and 
stifling glooms, with crowds of unknown figures 
passing rapidly to and fro, I seemed to grow 
suddenly light-hearted and joyful. I next ap- 
peared to myself to be sitting or reclining on the 
grassy top of a cliff, in bright sunlight. The 
ground fell precipitously in front of me, and I 
saw to left and right the sharp crags and horns 
of the rock-face below me ; behind me was a wide 
space of grassy down, with a fresh wind racing 
over it. The sky was cloudless. Far below I 
could see yellow sands, on which a blue sea broke 
in crisp waves. To the left a river flowed through 
a little hamlet, clustered round a church; I 
looked down on the roofs of the small houses, and 
[39] 



Until the Evening 



saw people passing to and fro, like ants. The 
river spread itself out in shallow shining channels 
over the sand, to join the sea. Further to the left 
rose shadowy headland after headland, and to the 
right lay a broad well- watered plain, full of trees 
and villages, bounded by a range of blue hills. 
On the sea moved ships, the wind filling their 
sails, and the sun shining on them with a pe- 
culiar brightness. The only sound in my ears 
was that of the whisper of the wind in the grass 
and stone crags. 

But I soon became aware with a shock of 
pleasant surprise that my perception of the whole 
scene was of a different quality to any perception 
I had before experienced. I have spoken of 
seeing and hearing ; but I became aware that I 
was doing neither; the perceptions, so to speak, 
both of seeing and hearing were not distinct, but 
the same. I was aware, for instance, at the same 
moment, of the whole scene, both of what was 
behind me and what was in front of me. I have 
described what I saw successively, because there 
is no other way of describing it; but it was all 
present at once in my mind, and I had no need 
to turn my attention to one point or another, but 
everything was there before me, in a unity at 
which I cannot even hint in words. I then be- 
[40] 



Until the Evening 



came aware too, that, though I have spoken of 
myself as seated or reclined, I had no body, but 
was merely, as it were, a sentient point. In a 
moment I became aware that to transfer that 
sentience to another point was merely an act of 
will. I was able to test this; in an instant I was 
close above the village, which a moment before 
was far below me, and I perceived the houses, 
the very faces of the people close at hand; at 
another moment I was buried deep in the cliflF, 
and felt the rock with its fissures all about me; 
at another moment, following my wish, I was 
beneath the sea, and saw the untrodden sands 
about me, with the blue sunlit water over my 
head. I saw the fish dart and poise above me, 
the ribbons of sea- weed floating up, just swayed 
by the currents, shells crawling like great snails 
on the ooze, crabs hurrying about among piles of 
boulders. But something drew me back to my 
first station, I know not why ; and there I poised, 
as a bird might have poised, and lost myself in a 
blissful dream. Then it darted into my mind 
that I was what I had been accustomed to call 
dead. So this was what lay on the other side of 
the dark passage, this lightness, this perfect free- 
dom, this undreamed-of peace ! I had not a 
single care or anxiety. It seemed as if nothing 
1411 



Until the Evening 



could trouble my repose and happiness. I could 
only think with a deep compassion of those who 
were still pent in uneasy bodies, under strait and 
sad conditions, anxious, sad, troubled, and blind, 
not knowing that the shadow of death which en- 
compassed them was but the cloud which veiled 
the gate of perfect and unutterable happiness. 

I felt rising in my mind a sense of all that lay 
before me, of all the mysteries that I would pene- 
trate, all the unvisited places that I would see. 
But at present I was too full of peace and quiet 
happiness to do anything but stay in an infinite 
content where I was. All sense of ennui or rest- 
lessness had left me. I was utterly free, utterly 
blest. I did, indeed, once send my thought to 
the home wliich I loved, and saw a darkened 
house, and my dear ones moving about with grief 
written legibly on their faces. I saw my mother 
sitting looking at some letters which I perceived 
to be my own, and was aware that she wept. 
But I could not even bring myself to grieve at 
that, because I knew that the same peace and joy 
that filled me was also surely awaiting them, and 
the darkest passage, the sharpest human suffer- 
ing, seemed so utterly little and trifling in the 
light of my new knowledge; and I was soon back 
on my cliff-top again, content to wait, to rest, to 
[42] 



Until the E vetting 



luxuriate in a happiness which seemed to have 
nothing selfish about it, because the satisfaction 
was so perfectly pure and natural. 

While I thus waited I became aware, with the 
same sort of sudden perception, of a presence 
beside me. It had no outward form; but I 
knew that it was a spirit full of love and kind- 
ness: it seemed to me to be old; it was not 
divine, for it brought no awe with it; and yet 
it was not quite human; it was a spirit that 
seemed to me to have been human, but to have 
risen into a higher sphere of perception. I simply 
felt a sense of deep and pure companionship. And 
presently I became aware that some communica- 
tion was passing between my consciousness and 
the consciousness of the newly-arrived spirit. It 
did not take place in words, but in thought; 
though only by words can I now represent it. 

"Yes.," said the other, "you do well to rest 
and to be happy: is it not a wonderful ex- 
perience.^ and yet you have been through it 
many times already, and will pass through 
it many times again." 

I suppose that I did not wholly understand 
this, for I said: ''I do not grasp that thought, 
though I am certain it is true; have I then died 
before?" 

[43] 



Until the Evening 



"Yes," said the other; "many times. It is a 
long progress; you will remember soon, when 
you have had time to reflect, and when the sweet 
novelty of the change has become more custom- 
ary. You have but returned to us again for a 
little; one needs that, you know, at first; one 
needs some refreshment and repose after each 
one of our lives, to be renewed, to be strength- 
ened for what comes after." 

All at once I understood. I knew that my last 
life had been one of many lives lived at all sorts 
of times and dates, and under various conditions; 
that at the end of each I had returned to this 
joyful freedom. 

It was the first cloud that passed over my 
thought. "Must I return again to life.^" I 
said. 

"Oh, yes," said the other; "you see that; you 
will soon return again — but never mind that 
now ; you are here to drink your fill of the beau- 
tiful things vhich you will only remember by 
glimpses and visions when you are back in the 
little life again." 

And then I had a sudden intuition. I seemed 

to be suddenly in a small and ugly street of a dark 

town. I saw slatternly women run in and out of 

the houses ; I saw smoke-stained grimy children 

[44] 



Until the Evening 



playing in the gutter. Above the poor, ill-kept 
houses a factory poured its black smoke into the 
air, and hummed behind its shuttered windows. 
I knew in a sad flash of thought that I was to be 
born there, to be brought up as a wailing child, 
under sad and sordid conditions, to struggle into 
a life of hard and hopeless labour, in the midst of 
vice, and poverty, and drunkenness, and hard 
usage. It filled me for a moment with a sort of 
nauseous dread, remembering the free and liberal 
conditions of my last life, the wealth and comfort 
I had enjoyed. 

"No," said the other; for in a moment I was 
back again, ''that is an unworthy thought — it is 
but for a moment; and you will return to this 
peace again." 

But the sad thought came down upon me like 
a cloud. "Is there no escape.^" I said; and at 
that, in a moment, the other spirit seemed to chide 
me, not angrily, but patiently and compassion- 
ately. "One suffers," he said, "but one gains ex- 
perience; one rises," adding more gently: "We 
do not know why it must be, of course — but it 
is the Will ; and however much one may doubt 
and suffer in the dark world there, one does 
not doubt of the wisdom or the love of it here." 
And I knew in a moment that I did not doubt, 
[45] 



Until the Evening 



but that I would go willingly wherever I should 
be sent. 

And then my thought became concerned with 
the spirit that spoke with me, and I said, ''And 
what is your place and work ? for I think you are 
like me and yet unlike." And he said : "Yes, it is 
true; I have to return thither no more; that is 
finished for me, and I grudge no single step of the 
dark road : I cannot explain to you what my work 
or place is; but I am old, and have seen many 
things; each of us has to return and return, not 
indeed till we are made perfect, but till we have 
finished that part of our course ; but the blessed- 
ness of this peace grows and grows, while it be- 
comes easier to bear what happens in that other 
place, for we grow strong and simple and sincere, 
and then the world can hurt us but little. We 
learn that we must not judge men ; but we know 
that when we see them cruel and vicious and 
selfish, they are then but children learning their 
first lessons; and on each of our visits to this 
place we see that the evil matters less and less, 
and the hope becomes brighter and brighter ; till 
at last we see." And I then seemed to turn to 
him in thought, for he said with a grave joy: 
"Yes, I have seen." And presently I was left 
alone to my happiness. 

146] 



Until the Evening 



How long it lasted I cannot tell ; but presently 
I seemed less free, less light of heart ; and soon I 
knew that I was bound ; and after a space I woke 
into the world again, and took up my burden of 
cares. 

But for all that I have a sense of hopefulness 
/eft which I think will not quite desert me. From 
what dim cell of the brain my vision rose, I know 
not, but though it came to me in so precise and 
clear a form, yet I cannot help feeling that some- 
thing deep and true has been revealed to me, 
some glimpse of pure heaven and bright air, 
that lies outside our little fretted lives. 



[47] 



U ntil the Even i n g 



THE ETERNAL WILL 

1HAVE spoken above, I know well, of things 
in which I have no skill to speak; I know 
no philosophy or metaphysics; to look into a 
philosophical book is to me like looking into a 
room piled up with bricks, the pure materials of 
thought ; they have no meaning for me, until the 
beautiful mind of some literary architect has built 
them into a house of life; but just as a shallow 
pool can reflect the dark and infinite spaces of 
night, pierced with stars, so in my own shallow 
mind these perennial difficulties, which lie behind 
all that we do and say, can be for a moment 
mirrored. 

The only value that such thoughts can have in 
life is that they should teach us to live in a frank 
and sincere mood, waiting patiently for the Lord, 
as the old Psalmist said. My own philosophy 
is a very simple one, and, if I could only be 
truer to it, it would bring me the strength which 
I lack. It is this: that being what we are, 
such frail, mysterious, inexplicable beings, we 
should wait humbly and hopefully upon God, 
not attempting, nor even wishing, to make up 
[48] 



Until the Evening 



our minds upon these deep secrets, only de- 
termined that we will be true to the inner light, 
and that we will not accept any solution which 
depends for its success upon neglecting or over- 
looking any of the phenomena with which we 
are confronted. We find ourselves placed in 
the world, in definite relations with certain people, 
endowed with certain qualities, with faults and 
fears, with hopes and joys, with likes and dislikes. 
Evil haunts us like a shadow, and though it 
menaces our happiness, we fall again and again 
under its dominion ; in the depths of our spirit a 
voice speaks, which assures us again and again 
that truth and purity and love are the best and 
dearest things that we can desire; and that 
voice, however imperfectly, I try to obey, because 
it seems the strongest and clearest of all the 
voices that call to me. I try to regard all ex- 
perience, whether sweet or bitter, fair or foul, 
as sent me by the great and awful power that 
put me where I am. The strongest and best 
things in the world seem to me to be peace and 
tranquillity, and the same hidden power seems 
to be leading me thither; and to lead me all 
the faster whenever I try not to fret, not to 
grieve, not to despair. ''Casting all your care 
upon him, for he careth for you,'^ says the Divine 
4 [49] 



Until the Evening 



Word ; and the more that I follow intuition rather 
than reason, the nearer I seem to come to the 
truth. I have lately wasted much fruitless 
thought over an anxious decision, weighing 
motives, forecasting possibilities. I knew at the 
time how useless it all was, and that my course 
would be made clear at the right moment; 
and I will tell the story of how it was made 
clear, as testimony to the perfect guidance of 
the divine hand. I was taking a journey, and 
the weary process was going on in my mind; 
every possible argument for and against the 
step was being reviewed and tested ; I could not 
read, I could not even look abroad upon the 
world. The train drew up at a dull suburban 
station, where our tickets were collected. The 
signal was given, and we started. It was at this 
moment that the conviction came, and I saw how 
I must act, with a certainty which I could not 
gainsay or resist. My reason had anticipated 
the opposite decision, but I had no longer any 
doubt or hesitation. The only question was 
how and when to announce the result; but 
when I returned home the same evening there 
was the letter waiting for me which gave the 
very opportunity I desired; and I have since 
learnt without surprise that the letter was being 
[50] 



Until the Evening 



penned at the very moment when the conviction 
came to me. 

I have told this experience in detail, because 
it seems to me to be a very perfect example of 
the suddenness with which conviction comes. 
But neither do I grudge the anxious reveries 
which for many days had preceded that convic- 
tion, because through them I learnt something of 
the inner weakness of my nature. But the true 
secret of it all is that we ought to live as far as 
we can in the day, the hour, the minute; to 
waste no time in anxious forecasting and miser- 
able regrets, but just do what lies before us as 
faithfully as possible. Gradually, too, one learns 
that the restricting of what is called religion to 
certain times of prayer and definite solemnities 
is the most pitiful of all mistakes; life lived 
with the intuition that I have indicated is all 
religion. The most trivial incident has to be 
interpreted; every word and deed and thought 
becomes full of a deep significance. One has 
no longer any anxious sense of duty; one de- 
sires no longer either to impress or influence; 
one aims only at guarding the quality of all 
one does or says — or rather the very word 
"aims" is a wrong one; there is no longer any 
aim or effort, except the effort to feel which way 
[511 



Until the Evening 



the gentle guiding hand would have us to go ; the 
only sorrow that is possible is when we rather 
perversely follow our own will and pleasure. 

The reason why I desire this book to say its 
few words to my brothers and sisters of this life, 
without any intrusion of personality, is that I am 
so sure of the truth of what I say, that I would 
not have any one distracted from the principles 
I have tried to put into words, by being able to 
compare it with my own weak practice. I am 
so far from having attained ; I have, I know, so 
many weary leagues to traverse yet, that I would 
not have my faithless and perverse wanderings 
known. But the secret waits for all who can 
throw aside convention and insincerity, who can 
make the sacrifice with a humble heart, and throw 
themselves utterly and fearlessly into the hands 
of God. Societies, organisations, ceremonies, 
forms, authority, dogma — they are all outside; 
silently and secretly, in the solitude of one's 
heart, must the lonely path be found; but the 
slender track once beneath our feet, all the com- 
plicated relations of the world become clear and 
simple. We have no need to change our path in 
life, to seek for any human guide, to desire new 
conditions, because we have the one Guide close 
to us, closer than friend or brother or lover, and 
[5^] 




Until the Evening 



we know that we are set where he would have us 
to be. Such a belief destroys in a flash all our 
embarrassment in dealing with others, all our 
anxieties in dealing with ourselves. In dealing 
with ourselves we shall only desire to be faithful, 
fearless and sincere; in dealing with others we 
shall try to be patient, tender, appreciative, and 
hopeful. If we have to blame, we shall blame 
without bitterness, without the outraged sense of 
personal vanity that brings anger with it. If we 
can praise, we shall praise with generous prodi- 
gality ; we shall not think of ourselves as a centre 
of influence, as radiating example and precept; 
but we shall know our own failures and difficul- 
ties, and shall realise as strongly that others are 
led likewise, and that each is the Father's pecu- 
liar care, as we realise it about ourselves. There 
will be no thrusting of ourselves to the front, nor 
an uneasy lingering upon the outskirts of the 
crowd, because we shall know that our place and 
our course are defined. We may crave for happi- 
ness, but we shall not resent sorrow. The dreari- 
est and saddest day becomes the inevitable, the 
true setting for our soul; we must drink the 
draught, and not fear to taste its bitterest savour ; 
it is the Father's cup. That a Christian, in such 
a mood, can concern himself with what is called 
[53] 



Until the Evening 



the historical basis of the Gospels, is a thought 
which can only be met by a smile; for there 
stands the record of perhaps the only life ever 
lived upon earth that conformed itself, at every 
moment, in the darkest experiences that life 
could bring, entirely and utterly to the Divine 
Will. One who walks in the light that I have 
spoken of is as inevitably a Christian as he is a 
human being, and is as true to the spirit of Christ 
as he is indifferent to the human accretions that 
have gathered round the august message. 

The possession of such a secret involves no 
retirement from the world, no breaking of ties, no 
ecclesiastical exercises, no endeavour to penetrate 
obscure ideas. It is as simple as the sunlight 
and the air. It involves no protest, no phrase, no 
renunciation. Its protest will be an unconcerned 
example, its phrase will be a perfect sincerity of 
speech, its renunciation will be what it does, not 
what it abstains from doing. It will go or stay 
as the inner voice bids it. It will not attempt 
the impossible nor the novel. Very clearly, from 
hour to hour, the path will be made plain, the 
weakness fortified, the sin purged away. It will 
judge no other life, it will seek no goal ; it will 
sometimes strive and cry, it will sometimes rest; 
it will move as gently and simply in unison with 
[54] 



Until the Evening 



the one supreme will, as the tide moves beneath 
the moon, piled in the central deep with all its 
noises, flooding the mud-stained waterway, where 
the ships ride together, or creeping softly upon 
the pale sands of some sequestered bay. 



[55] 



Until the Evening 



UNTIL THE EVENING 

1STOP sometimes on a landing in an old house, 
where I often stay, to look at a dusky, faded 
water-colour that hangs upon the wall. I do not 
think its technical merit is great, but it somehow 
has the poetical quality. It represents, or seems 
to represent, a piece of high open ground, down- 
land or heath, with a few low bushes growing 
there, sprawling and wind-brushed; a road 
crosses the fore-ground, and dips over to the plain 
beyond, a forest tract full of dark woodland, 
dappled by open spaces. There is a long faint 
distant line of hills on the horizon. The time ap- 
pears to be just after sunset, when the sky is still 
full of a pale liquid light, before objects have lost 
their colour, but are just beginning to be tinged 
with dusk. In the road stands the figure of a 
man, with his back turned, his hand shading 
his eyes as he gazes out across the plain. He 
appears to be a wayfarer, and to be weary but 
not dispirited. There is a look of serene and 
sober content about him, how communicated I 
know not. He would seem to have far to go, 
[56] 



Until the Evening 



but yet to be certainly drawing nearer to his 
home, which indeed he seems to discern afar off. 
The picture bears the simple legend, Until the 
Evening. 

This design seems always to be charged for 
me with a beautiful and grave meaning. Just so 
would I draw near to the end of my pilgrimage, 
wearied but tranquil, assured of rest and welcome. 
The freshness and blithe eagerness of the morning 
are over, the solid hours of sturdy progress are 
gone, the heat of the day is past, and only the 
gentle descent among the shadows remains, with 
cool airs blowing from darkling thickets, laden 
with woodland scents, and the rich fragrance of 
rushy dingles. Ere the night falls the wayfarer 
will push the familiar gate open, and see the lamp- 
lit windows of home, with the dark chimneys and 
gables outlined against the green sky. Those 
that love him are awaiting him, listening for the 
footfall to draw near. 

Is it not possible to attain this ? And yet how 
often does it seem to be the fate of a human soul 
to stumble, like one chased and hunted, with 
dazed and terrified air, and hurried piteous 
phrase, down the darkening track. Yet one 
should rather approach God, bearing in careful 
hands the priceless and precious gift of life, 

[57] 



Until the Evening 



ready to restore it if it be his will. God grant 
us so to live, in courage and trust, that, when he 
calls us we may pass willingly and with a quiet 
confidence to the gate that opens into tracts 
unknown ! 



[58] 



1 



Deacidified using the Bookkeeper process. 
Neutralizing agent: Magnesium Oxide 
Treatment Date: April 2005 

PreservationTechnologies 

A WORLD LEADER IN PAPER PRESERVATION 

1 1 1 Thomson Park Drive 
Cranberry Township. PA 16066 
(724) 779-21 1 1 



fyi 



•V ^ 



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 





013 985 425 1 H 



